


Can't Handle This

by meandmybrokenfeels



Series: NaNoWriMo 2016 One-Shot Collection [17]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Ficlet, Gen, One Shot, Songfic, Suicide, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8713486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meandmybrokenfeels/pseuds/meandmybrokenfeels
Summary: Phil reads Dan's last journal entry, trying to figure out what had pushed him to kill himself.Based heavily on the ending of Make Happy by Bo Burnham.





	

Phil’s hands shook as he picked up the journal. God knows he didn’t want to, but he had to see what was inside. He needed to know Dan’s last thoughts before he… 

He wanted to forget everything he’d seen, but he had to know why. What could’ve driven Dan to do this to himself? To Phil? To the world?

He opened it to the most recent entry. He began reading, trying his best not to smudge the words too much with his quiet tears.

 _Man, I’ve got so much shit to say_ , Dan had written. _I’ve also got so many questions._

_What is all this about? YouTube, that is. What’s it about? Performing? It started because people wanted to share about themselves, but it’s become so distorted. All anybody cares about now is the fame. Nobody’s honest anymore._

_What have I become? What am I classified as now? Comedian? Performer? Is there even a perfect title for what I do now? “YouTuber” doesn’t mean anything. Nobody understands. Not even me, and I’m supposed to be the one living this life._

At this point, Dan abruptly changed directions, shocking Phil a bit at the strangeness.

_Did you know that I can’t fit my hand inside a pringle can? I have a huge amount of trouble. I can get my hand like four inches into the can, but then I have to tilt it. And by that point a bunch of crumbs have accumulated at the bottom so they all come spilling out onto my face._

_How many complaint letters do they get about that? I mean, the only people in this house are me and Phil, and we’re both ridiculously large humans. How are we supposed to eat pringles? This is discrimination._

_I may have overdone the pringles thing. Sorry._

_Another thing I’ve noticed: I don’t go to the gym ‘cause I’m self conscious about my body. But I’m self conscious about my body ‘cause I don’t go to the gym. Irony can be so painful._

Phil skimmed over the next paragraph: Dan was complaining about a recent Chipotle experience. “What in the world was going on with him?” he wondered quietly to himself.

He skipped to the end of the bit about the burrito.

_Do you think I want a messy burrito? No one wants a messy burrito._

He was about to give up and discount the entire entry as worthless when he saw that the burrito rant stopped in the middle of a sentence. Dan had apparently halted that train to jump down to another paragraph, where Phil picked up reading again.

_I can sit here and pretend like my biggest problems are pringle cans and burritos… the truth is, my biggest problem’s you._

“Me?”

Dan went on, describing the symptoms of dissociation and depersonalization, writing about how he especially struggled with them as the audience grew so rapidly. With such a diverse crowd, there was no way he could please everyone. He felt himself becoming little more than a name, a brand to sell.

_I want to please you, but I want to stay true to myself. I want to give you the quality that you deserve, but I wanna say what I think and not care what you think about it._

_A part of me loves you._

_Part of me hates you._

_Part of me needs you._

_Part of me fears you._

_And I don’t think that I can handle this right now._

The rest of the page was taken up by that last line being repeated over and over again, partially and wholly, growing more sloppy as he raced to get the words out of his head through his pen. It looked as though he had been clenching it in his fist and digging the pen into the paper, as if by doing so he could bury the thoughts.

_I don’t think that I can handle this right now handle this right now I don’t think that I can handle this right HANDLE THIS RIGHT NOW_

Phil turned the page. At some point, Dan stopped speaking directly to the audience, instead choosing to address whoever would listen to his silent screams.

_I mean, look at them! They just stare at me, like, “Come and watch the skinny kid with a steadily declining mental health and laugh as he attempts to give you what he cannot give himself.”_

Dan began berating himself within the writing.

_“Have the courage to exist.” How can I tell them that when I don’t have the courage that it takes to be real?_

_You can tell them anything if you just make it funny._

_Hell, they think anything’s funny._

_They aren’t people. Not separate beings--a huge conglomerate of screams. They are their own entity. A terrifyingly large mass that just keeps accumulating darkness and I swear someday it’s going to consume me--consume us._

_I know I’m no professional, I put on a silly show. I should probably just shut up and do my job, but-_

_I don’t think that I can handle this right now._

That’s where it ends.

Phil’s hands shake even more as he closes the journal. He didn’t think that was possible.

Dan’s phone sat next to the journal. He unlocks it to see a drafted tweet, never sent.

_Thank you. Good night. I hope you’re happy._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry. I needed to balance out all the fluff I've been doing with some angst, and Bo popped up in my suggested videos. Besides: I think his show provides a lot of food for thought, including (but not limited to) how fame and pressure and the eyes of the public can break people, no matter how much they thought they wanted it. Happiness can quickly be destroyed, leaving nothing in its place but hurt and hopelessness.
> 
>  
> 
> _On a scale from one to zero, are you happy?_


End file.
